


The Catch Up

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [10]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Pastries, Slapstick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time Lord sexuality, he says, is mutable and easily adaptable. She does her best to prove human sexuality is as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Catch Up

**Author's Note:**

> for Antennapedia, who requested: Twelve/Clara, anal sex: they decide that while pegging is lovely, turnabout now and then is fun too.

It took Clara months to get the Doctor comfortable with holding her hand. A year, give or take, for anything more, to stop him cringing when she touched him, or turning bashfully away after the briefest of kisses. After his inaugural orgasm, though, it’s like a seal has been ripped off of centuries of sexual repression. Zero to one hundred, real quick. Time Lord sexuality, he says, is mutable and easily adaptable. She does her best to prove human sexuality is as well.  
  
She’s had him on Earth and in the vortex, in beds and in hallways; in zero gravity, sensory-deprivation pods, in a variety of positions with an assortment of accoutrements. She’s got a checklist. She’s diligent about these things.  
  
Her fucking him has been checked off the list for a while now, but they keep finding themselves in this position. Like a favorite song, played in shameless repeat. Him on his back, her buried hilt-deep inside him. And that’s where they’re at now, her pounding a truly astounding collection of noises out of him. He comes with a kind of squawk, and she slips out once she’s caught up, unfastening the strap-on and flinging it at the wall.  
  
She pets his hair, trying to catch her breath. “That was great,” she says.  
  
He preens.  
  
“But,” she says, and pauses. She can’t help it, she loves he face he makes when his ego deflates. She lets him squirm a bit. “We’ve done it before. All of time and all of space, all the weird sex manuals you have in the library - shush, don’t deny it, I’ve seen your tentacle porn, it’s okay - I mean I like this, a lot, only it’s getting a little…boring.”  
  
“I don’t do boring,” he protests. “I’m the opposite of boring. ‘Boring’ cowers in my presence. If anyone is boring here, it’s you. I was waiting for you to move on. Didn’t want to say anything, is all.”  
  
“So you’re down to try something else, then. Switch roles?”  
  
He stares at her, uncomprehending. “We’ve done that. Have you forgotten? Your brain is quite small, comparatively, it’s understandable.”  
  
She gestures, raises her eyebrows. Like, you know, down there. Not there, there.  
  
He nods, pretending to understand. "Gallifreyan refractory periods are remarkably short,” he says, looking like it’ll take days for him to stand up let alone go another round. “Give me two minutes and some strudel, I’ll be ready and raring to go.”  
  
He’s asleep when she comes back from the TARDIS kitchen, bearing a tray packed with a small fraction of the pastries they’d accidentally stolen from a bakery in 1996-ish Berlin earlier that day. She sighs, and sets the tray down on the bed, sitting cross-legged beside it, eating pfeffernüsse and listening to him snore.  
  
(I don’t sleep, he insists later. You must have been imagining things. She responds by shoving a piece of strudel in the general direction of his face.)  
  
  
She has to spell it out, the next time they find themselves with a spare evening uninterrupted by the end of the universe or a villain’s dastardly schemes. In the arse, she explains patiently. Please will you fuck me in the arse. He blushes, she grins. She shucks her clothes off and falls back on the bed, watching his face transparently displaying the gears turning in his head.  
  
“Okay,” he says. “Right. So. Do you have a diagram, or.”  
  
“You need me to explain how to put Tab A into Slot C? First time, or are you just getting forgetful in your old age?”  
  
“I’ve done this before,” he says defensively. “Dozens of times. Hundreds. I’m an expert. I just-”  
  
“It’s alright,” she replies. “We’ll go slow. Just shut up and c'mere.” She pulls him on top of her, where he hovers, arms and legs outstretched like an awkward space-spider. (He’s mutable and adaptable but it always takes a bit of time for his body to catch up with what his brain wants to do.) She undresses him, peeling his clothes off layer by layer (by layer - he really does wear an unreasonable amount of clothing), working him up from half-hard ambivalence to straining, moaning arousal. She nudges him back onto his haunches, props herself on an assortment of pillows, and she leans back, wondering how long it’ll take for him to learn how to take the reins without her handing them to him. Not long, hopefully.  
  
“Okay,” he says again. He’s got his I’m Doing Science face on, that curious, analytical expression, as he peers between her legs, one hand spreading her open and the other absentmindedly slicking his cock with lube.  
  
She does enjoy watching him touch himself, but this isn’t the time. “Whenever you’re ready,” she chokes out, high-pitched and in an obviously desperate tone that is, obviously, lost on him. Or maybe he’s teasing her.  Either way, she’s digging up some hidden reserve of self-restraint to keep from thrusting up against his delicately-probing fingers.  
  
Wait and he’ll get there. He always does. He guides her legs around his chest, tugs her up and towards him. The muscles in his arms flexing. And, with the care and attention he tends to pay to his hobbies, he gets to work.  
  
His index finger comes to rest on her arsehole, pressing gently then sliding slowly, slowly in. Eyebrows raised: Like this? She nods vehemently. She’s intensely aware of the shape and size and location of his knuckles. He feels around experimentally until he hits something that makes her writhe. His name on her lips and she bites it back - can’t flatter him too much, too quickly, his head will inflate and he’ll float away like a hot-air balloon. Wait, he’ll get there. Index and middle finger now, easing her into it like she’s taught him. His gaze heavy on her, flicking between her eyes and her hands cupping her breasts and the task at hand.  
  
She watches him long enough to see the look on his face when he slides his cock into her. After that, she gives up. Eyes closed, mouth open, breath ragged and complex thought processes laid aside.  
  
He’s tentative at first, but settles quick enough into the fluid, rocking motion she’s come to expect. He’s not great at pounding her into the mattress but he’s good at his own off-kilter thing; not arrhythmic, just a different sort of rhythm, a different way of keeping time. One hand holding her hip steady, the other between her legs, thumb against her clit.  
  
It’s just this side of too much, the pressure and pleasure and friction and faint edge of pain. Like she’s on the verge of being fucked apart, but not quite. He’s saying her name, she’s spewing foul-mouthed gibberish. She puts her hand on his, urging him to be rougher, faster, more insistent, less fucking around with unrelated genital details and more of that, there.  
  
Eyes open now and he’s got that face on, the tomato-red sweaty grimace that indicates he’s an inch from losing it, and she giggles (because it’s funny, that face) and he loses momentum, slips out, falls gracelessly against her, and with his elbow somehow digging into her stomach, she comes.  
  
He rolls away, huffy and eyebrows at DEFCON 1, and brings himself off manually. Doesn’t take much, just a few strokes before he’s spurting into his fist with that odd-but-cute squeaky noise he always makes.  
  
“We’ll try again later,” she says, petting his hair. With the hand that she’d - they’ll take a shower, it’s fine.  
  
“The refractory period of Gallifreyans-” he begins.  
  
“Shush,” she interrupts. “Later-later. You promised me ancient Egypt, remember?”  
  
“We can do both-”  
  
“We are not having - we’re not - no. Adventure-mode is not sex-mode, remember?” She glares, and he acquiesces, and she hauls herself out of bed for a thorough deep-cleaning. She’s got pyramids to see, pharaohs to meet, and. eventually, another round of this to get to. They’ll have to be careful about the sand in…places, though.


End file.
